I grew up three or so blocks from the fabled Chester’s Pool Hall, 2733 NW 50th. Even back then, they were secretly famous for their onion burgers, conceived at a time when secrets like that were kept rightly under wraps by neighborhoods that didn’t want to share them with anyone.
I, however, never went there as a kid, mostly due to the pool-hall police stories that my parents filled my developing head with to great effect. However, the one time that I did manage to sneak over there, as I sat in the back noshing on my quite tasty burger, I was made fun of by a couple of upperclassmen from high school, which carried over for much of my sentence at Northwest Classen.
But, you know what? I’m currently fucking 43 years old and if I want to eat a fucking burger at Chester’s, then by God I’m going to eat a fucking burger at Chester’s.
At least that’s the mature rationale that I told my lifelong gal-pal Jodie about as I spilled my bloated guts to her about my tumultuous history—at least the one in my head—with the place. As I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst, we entered and were confronted with…old men, most of them sitting around and sipping coffee.